


Love Me A Little

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, M/M, Open Relationships, self-indulgence at its best, very slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“If you Skype Meri later, can I speak with her? I’ve got to show her a new ring I bought.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ben rolls his eyes. Harry might be sleeping with just one Winston, but he only gets to do that <i>because</i> of Meri’s blessing, and besides, she probably likes him a bit better than she likes Ben, anyway. (She makes the best bacon sarnies for Harry when he's hungover, she gives a great emotional cuddle and she smells like the petunias in their garden, so sometimes he likes her more than he likes Ben, too.)</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah, yeah. As if Meri will deign to talk to me when you’re anywhere in the room, anyhow,” Ben mutters, pouring some Baileys into two white mugs as the coffee maker gurgles to life.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me A Little

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falsetto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsetto/gifts).



> Well, my lovebug Natasha's birthday came and went and I was having such terrible writer's block, so I hope this can make up for the delay despite how terrible it is? Ben and Harry have a thing on tour. Here lies their ridiculousness on one of their stops in America. Title comes from a Frida Kahlo quote which I promise is angstier than the fic itself.
> 
> _“I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and I’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you.”_

Harry wakes up before Ben. 

It’s a bit unusual -- Ben is the early riser between them, an 8am coffee and news report kind of man; Harry doesn’t rise before afternoon for _anything_ if his alarm isn’t set. It makes him wonder if Ben couldn’t sleep in the night, twisting and turning on the hotel bed parallel to Harry’s while Harry was dead to the world, only managing to doze off while the sun was clawing its way out of hiding. Or maybe Ben's just tired; tired of having their second documentary looming in the too-soon distance, tired of keeping a camera the size of Harry’s midsection settled on his shoulder all day. 

But Ben makes it all seem so effortless, smiles like he lives and breathes for it, like he would die for it. Either way, Harry doesn’t want to wake him now. He feels a strange tug of concern in his stomach, almost a motherly instinct to make sure Ben gets enough rest and that no one bothers him, all but ready to lash out at anyone who calls or messages him to talk business when Ben so clearly just needs a moment to himself. It registers as a completely absurd thought as soon as it crosses Harry's mind, his skin warming with embarrassment as he lets his eyes rove over Ben’s sleeping form. He’s not exactly entitled to fret over him, is he? Ben’s nearly twice his age, making Harry feel like such a stupid little boy in comparison sometimes. He’s never witnessed Ben so much as trip over his words instructing his half-a-dozen helpers on set, let alone struggle with his own two legs. 

Ben is the best sort of contradiction, really; body like a brick wall, so firm that you could bend your finger in half poking his stomach, while everything else about him remains kind and approachable, from his eyes and his voice to the way he touches your elbow when he speaks. He’s intelligent and unrepentant with the knowledge he holds, informed enough to shut down any argument used against him, even if he’s only half-convinced of what he’s fighting for.

Harry tiptoes to the bathroom to have a wee, leaving his muddled thoughts of adoration behind in the main room. He’s still clean from his shower before bed last night; Mark had worked him half-to-death on the treadmill until 11pm, so he’s got a residual burn in his stomach and arms, in his hamstrings, all along his back. He thinks some of it is just from performing every night again, and some of it is from getting back into the healthy lifestyle. When they were off for those few months between tours, he’d gone to the gym exactly never, so it’s a bit of a task, reminding his body how to move beyond just reaching for the remote or shoveling food into his mouth.

Ben’s things are all over the bathroom counter, but not messily. He’s the most organized person Harry’s ever roomed with, probably; he’s got a small black bag that zips up settled on the right side of the sink, next to his toothbrush, his dark brown cologne bottle and his wedding ring. 

Harry relieves himself and, after washing and drying his hands, drags Ben’s bag closer to him to unzip it. He’s seen Ben with it enough times to know what’s inside; a wide shaving brush with soft, beige bristles and a stumpy wooden handle; a small wooden bowl, made of a darker grain; a tub of fancy shaving cream, a razor and five brand new razor heads.

Harry’s bored enough to decide to "shave". He dampens his face first, then works the cream into a thick foam inside of the bowl with the brush. The bathroom immediately fills with the scent of Ben, musky and sharp and intoxicating, making the corners of Harry’s lips turn up; he has to convince himself not to abandon the loo altogether so he can throw himself over Ben's back in bed, burrow his nose in the crook of his neck and get the scent straight from the source. 

He watches himself in the mirror as he lathers the shaving cream over his face in small circles, feeling a bit more pretentious and up himself with each inch of skin he covers, moving over his upper lip and his cheeks and all across his jawline, even brushing the tops of his neck, underneath his chin, just above his Adam’s apple.

He runs the brush under the tap when he’s done, water chasing the cream out of the bristles. Weak, murky bubbles gather at the base of the sink, popping one by one as they swirl down the drain. He wicks the brush against the lip of the sink a few times, then sets it down on its handle, facing upwards so it can dry.

He picks up the razor and starts with the right side of his face, because it’s always a bit more awkward and difficult to reach, and he goes in smooth, mindful lines, washing the razor head off between strokes. His skin feels immeasurably smoother after each strip of cream is cleared, even though he knows that running a blade over his already boyish jaw doesn’t make much of a difference, visually-speaking; it’s only that it feels nice -- calming, soothing, and like he’s closer to Ben, somehow.

Speak of the devil. Ben hums in greeting when he appears behind him a moment later, pressing warm, large hands to his hips, just as Harry starts on the left side of his jaw -- much less of a strain on his wrist. 

They’re a sight to see in the mirror together; Harry is in nothing but his briefs, his inked abdomen and arms flexing as his hand continues its mission, his tattoos seeming alive with movement. Ben is in a grey shirt, black boxers, looking sleep-ruffled and a bit dazed, far too handsome and clean cut to be pressing along someone like Harry’s back.

“Why do you insist on wasting my things?” Ben asks him, gravelly and slow but sweet nonetheless, and Harry’s breath hitches when he scans Ben’s face in his reflection, sees how thick his beard is in comparison to his own non-existent one.

He flicks his eyes back to his own reflection with a lazy smile; there are bits of cream left that the blades didn’t catch. He washes the razor and sets it aside, then washes his face and dries off with his hand towel before throwing it aside.

“Not wasting your things, though, am I?” he replies belatedly, taking hold of Ben’s wrists and pulling them around him from behind, resting back against Ben’s bed-warmed body. He shivers when Ben responds by tightening his hold on Harry and dropping a kiss to his head. “Just like to shave sometimes, when squirrels start to nest in my beard.”

Ben laughs, a rumble traveling through them both when he gives Harry’s waist another squeeze. Harry has to bite his lip against a long, pathetic protest when Ben inevitably lets go of him. He watches him walk away to the toilet bowl, his broad back to Harry, and leans against the counter as he listens to him have a wee.

“Do I look nice?” Harry asks him. "You didn't say."

“You always look lovely,” Ben assures, but he doesn’t turn around until he's finished, moving to the sink to wash his hands.

Harry leans out of his way momentarily, then curls up around his arm a moment later, digging his chin into it. “Smell like you, now, don’t I? All rugged and middle-aged."

Ben hums. “Might do. Think people will confuse us for each other?”

Harry smirks. “Maybe people will start to wonder how you got so young and fit all of a sudden.”

“Oi,” Ben laughs, turning to splash Harry in the face before grabbing for the towel and drying off. “Cheeky sod.”

Harry smirks to one side, wiping droplets off his nose with the back of his hand, always delighted to be told off. “You know what today is?”

“What’s today, then? Did you hit puberty?”

“Karaoke,” Harry sing-songs, ignoring the jab.

Ben rolls his eyes. “I’ll be sure to keep the room toasty for you when you’re back.”

“Nu uh, you’re coming with,” Harry says. “You’re going to take me to brunch, and then we’re going to watch a pay-per-view movie and then we’re going for karaoke.”

“I’m astonished by how much of a say I get in this, really,” Ben says, leading them out of the bathroom and turning on the coffee maker. His ring is back on his finger and it makes Harry smile as he presses against his back; he kisses him between the shoulderblades, squeezing his biceps once before slinking away toward his suitcase to search for an outfit.

“Of course you get a say. Please, please tell me what you feel like doing, Ben. But I have veto rights on all your suggestions and also, you have to do all the things I want to do instead,” he says distractedly, pulling out a clean-looking white shirt and tugging it on. “If you Skype Meri later, can I speak with her? I’ve got to show her a new ring I bought.”

Ben rolls his eyes. Harry might be sleeping with just one Winston, but he only gets to do that _because_ of Meri’s blessing, and besides, she probably likes him a bit better than she likes Ben, anyway. (She makes the best bacon sarnies for Harry when he's hungover, she gives a great emotional cuddle and she smells like the petunias in their garden, so sometimes he likes her more than he likes Ben, too.)

“Yeah, yeah. As if Meri will deign to talk to me when you’re anywhere in the room, anyhow,” Ben mutters, pouring some Baileys into two white mugs as the coffee maker gurgles to life. 

Harry grins as he pulls on his jeans with the rips in the knees, hopping around in his spot trying to get them up his legs. He has to grab onto the wall a few times so he doesn’t fall; it's a close thing on the third hop. He flops down onto the bed when he’s dressed, turning the television on and flicking through the channels as he waits for their spiked coffee to be ready, the cool A/C cascading over his freshly-shaved cheeks and warming him from the inside.

***

Harry Googles reviews for brunch spots and picks his favourite one. It only has a 3.5 stars rating, but it seems like the quirkiest. There are photos of it uploaded to a gallery; the walls are painted bright yellow with vivid, abstract art splashed all about, making Harry’s decision easy. He doesn’t really pay the menu any attention, but he’s sure it’ll be fine.

The train over is mostly empty, but they stay standing anyway because the restaurant is only a few stops away. No one seems to recognize Harry; there isn’t any hushed chatter and there aren’t any badly-concealed mobile phones that are held at the perfect angle to snap a photo, which is all very nice. He doesn’t mind signing autographs and taking pictures, but there’s a special kind of lightness he feels from being able to pretend he’s normal and utterly insignificant in public spaces; it makes him feel giddy, invincible.

Ben is the only person who can grab the overhead railing with both hands without having to strain to reach it. Harry considers stretching his body out and holding on, as well, but then he has a better idea, a delighted smile pulling his lips to one side as he wraps his arms around Ben’s middle instead, stepping in close so their feet are tangled on the sticky floor, the rumble of the train tracks tangible beneath their soles.

“Harry,” Ben warns, but there’s a confused smile in his own eyes when he looks down.

“No one’s taking photos,” Harry argues, resting his cheek against Ben’s chest. “And if they do, they’ll just think I’m being stupid."

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Ben huffs a laugh.

“Just let me do boyfriend-y things with you,” Harry mumbles after a moment, letting his petulance seep through but not looking up to see Ben’s reaction.

“Harry,” Ben says, softer this time, less discernible in meaning. Harry just hums, turning to nuzzle his nose against Ben’s chest, holding onto him easily as the train screeches to a stop. An elderly couple steps on but doesn’t spare them a glance. 

Ben drops one arm from the railing, wrapping it around Harry’s shoulders and touching his lips to Harry’s temple in a not-kiss. The train continues on its path with Ben’s solid, sturdy weight keeping them both upright, and Harry thinks _close enough_.

***

Brunch is relaxing, and only two people ask to take a photo with Harry a few moments after they sit down. 

They decide on the patio because it seems pleasant enough outside, but Harry gets cold quickly, the wind picking up as soon as they place their order. He rubs his hands over his arms repeatedly and Ben frowns when he notices. He pulls off his black jumper -- he’s only wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt underneath -- and holds it out for him, even when Harry says, “Nooo, you’ll freeze to death then I'll have to take the tube back on my own," as if that's his biggest concern.

“If I’m poorly, nothing slows down,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “If you’re poorly, the whole show has to stop.”

Harry bites his lip and accepts it with a murmured thanks, a soft flush creeping up his cheeks because Ben cares about him so much; it gets overwhelming, sometimes, just how much Harry loves him in return. The jumper is far too large on him, and he keeps having to tug the sleeves up and away from his hands while he’s eating, but it smells even more like Ben than even the shaving cream had, so he doesn’t mind.

The cuisine is mexican. Ben has a quesadilla and a Bloody Mary. Harry has a breakfast burrito and an orange juice because they won’t give him alcohol without carding him. When Harry pouts over the rim of his glass enough times, Ben waits until their server has disappeared inside and lets him have the entirety of his second drink, celery stick and all.

***

They wind up ordering a bottle of wine to their room, getting a pay-per-view movie and taking an afternoon nap. A very unnecessary, drunk and extended afternoon nap that lasts deep into the evening. Harry turns around toward the end of it and smashes his nose right into Ben’s sternum, whining a guttural _owwww_ into his shirt and waking them both up in the process.

It takes a while for them to get re-oriented with their surroundings, sleep-heavy and tipsy still. Harry rubs the stickiness from his eyes and drifts in and out of consciousness and Ben sits up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. They’ve got a half-dozen messages from Cal, Niall and Mark about where to meet for karaoke in a few hours. 

Ben is the first out of bed, pulling on his most fitted pair of jeans (which aren’t anywhere near fitted enough, if you ask Harry). He pairs them with a white t-shirt, a plaid button-up and his red Nike sneakers. Harry loves it when Ben dresses down like this; it’s so unbearably attractive to him that he almost wants to undress him as soon as he’s got his kit on, beg him to fuck him before they go, but he knows they’ll be in no state to leave the hotel room if they get started now.

The karaoke spot is tucked away on the second floor of an apartment building that's peeling on the outside. It’s in a part of town that’s heavily graffitied and has bottlenecked traffic at every intersection; there are continuous horns going off around them, rivalled only by angry drivers yelling out their windows the kind of things that would have had Anne shoving soap down Harry’s throat when he still lived at home. It’s just as seedy inside as the exterior would suggest, which is exactly what Harry was hoping for. They work up a proper, steady buzz in no time and end up alternating between singing tragic hits from the ‘80s -- Cal and Harry team up on a truly revolutionary rendition of Careless Whisper -- and Top 40 songs.

Harry begs Ben to sing with him, tugs on the sleeve of his button up, bats at his chest with an open fist, even bites him on his jawline reproachfully when they’re both drunk enough and no one’s looking, but Ben refuses to come up with him to the front, sticking by the bar and watching in amusement as everyone else gathers near the stage to make a fool of themselves.

When Niall does the Backstreet Boys a while later -- Harry stopped keeping track of actual time after the third Jägerbomb -- it’s the _perfect_ song. Harry beams and his eyes light up, turning around to search out Ben’s. He snaps his fingers goofily when their gazes meet across the room, extending his neck so he can keep the eye contact amidst the crowd, weaving his way over to him whilst doing his best ‘music video’ walk and singing the lyrics as he gets closer.

“I'd like to know your policy, when it comes to me,” he sings, exaggerating his growl. “Like to know what's in your mind, ‘cause it's not easy to see. I know now what I feel and what to do,” he grits out, scrunching his nose up dramatically even as he smiles in Ben's face. 

Ben laughs and rolls his eyes, shoving him away by the breastbone and making him break character entirely; Harry laughs, setting his hands on either side of Ben on the bar.

“I wanna be with yooou,” he sings, affecting his best desparate performer face. “It's crazy but it's truuue. And everything I dooo, oh baby, _I wanna be with you._ ”

“Alright, Hazza,” Ben says in his fond _enough now_ voice. “No more shots for you, that’s for sure.”

Harry gasps like he’s offended, but his attention has already strayed to the bar, tone distracted as he searches for the barkeep. “My love for you has nothing to do with how much I’ve had to drink, Ben.” 

“No,” Ben says firmly, instantly realizing what Harry’s up to and bringing his face back to him with a hand on his neck. “No more drinks. You’ve got a show tomorrow, big boy.”

“Stern,” Harry says with a smile smile, a dull heat pooling in his stomach as he presses his hips closer on instinct; he looks down at Ben’s mouth and bites his lip. “Does Meri call you Daddy when you’re like this?”

“Harry,” Ben warns.

Harry smiles bigger, more guiltily, meeting Ben’s eyes. “Just one more drink, please.”

“Zero more drink, please.”

“One more drink and I’ll let us leave right after,” Harry reasons hopefully. “Promise this time.”

Ben throws his head back a moment later and groans long-sufferingly at the ceiling. Harry smirks and nods over to the barkeep, knowing he’s won.

***

He doesn’t know precisely how it all escalates so fast. 

Ben made him have three glasses of water from the hotel room tap, eat an entire bloody orange from the complimentary fruit basket and watch two episodes of Married to Jonas before he finally gave in to Harry’s incessant whining to please, _please_ fuck him. Harry can’t even catch his breath now.

It’s just that Ben always finds a way to pull him out of his skin, giving him the kind of sex that makes his eyes roll back behind his lids, soul ascending to somewhere truly unholy. He’s on his stomach this time, mouth full of damp pillow that he keeps tugging angrily between his teeth so he doesn’t scream; he’s got one hand holding onto the sheets at an awkward angle beneath his torso and the other reaching back to hold Ben’s head over his shoulder, keeping him near. 

He could swear he started out on his hands and knees with enough leverage to push back for more, but then Ben had kept driving into him and Harry had collapsed to his elbows with a hopeless keen, becoming flattened between the mattress and Ben’s body like the filling to some really perverse, overwhelming sandwich. Now, Ben's fucking him relentlessly from behind and the sheets are rubbing against his swollen cock from below, and he’s helpless to do anything but take it.

“Daddy,” he whimpers as the feeling in his stomach intensifies, pleasure rolling through him lower and lower until it crashes right in his centre, a blinding spark shooting through him at his own voice. “Yeah, _yeah_ \-- fuck me, Daddy, please.”

“Jesus, Hazza,” Ben hisses and shifts atop him, rearranging himself and making Harry groan weakly at the interruption of their pace, Ben’s breathing audible from above him. 

He stills his movements long enough for Harry to lose the urgency of his own orgasm, blinking blearily and breathing from his mouth, hyperaware of his heartbeat in his own ears. Ben kisses Harry’s naked shoulder and Harry makes a soft sound of appreciation, tilting his head to the side and curling his fingers against Ben's nape, pulling him closer until Ben obliges him with a sloppy kiss.

“Love you,” Ben mumbles easily into his lips, making a different kind of warmth spread through Harry's chest. He kisses Harry once more, a quick peck, and then drops his eyes to look between them at where they’re still connected. 

Harry moans quietly when Ben starts moving again, feeling the slow drag of Ben’s cock as he rolls their hips together almost reverently this time; Harry shifts, crossing his forearms beneath his forehead and trying to breathe steadily through the sensation.

Ben’s thrusts escalate bit by bit into sharp, shallow rolls of his hips, until he’s barely pulling out at all, grinding right up against Harry’s insides in torturous circles and Harry _cries out_ , his back bowing against Ben’s chest as he comes suddenly against the bed, rutting shamelessly against the newly dampened spot while Ben fucks him through it.

Ben holds himself over him afterwards with expert ease. Harry can feel just how hard he still is as he slips out of him, the length of his curved cock catching on Harry’s sensitive rim on the way out, making him hiss in pain. Ben peppers the back of his sweating neck in kisses, gentle and sweet, completely unhurried in a way that nearly overwhelms Harry with affection. Harry lets himself regain his breath, basking in Ben’s attention for the longest while before he rolls over beneath him.

He smiles when their eyes meet, bent knees bracketing Ben’s hips, Ben’s weight kept off him by his elbows as he smiles back. Harry reaches both hands between them so he can roll the condom off Ben’s cock, feeling how wet it is beneath. He looks off to the side as he flings his arm out and drops the rubber off the edge of the bed, muttering "Farewell," and gazing dramatically into the distance until Ben's shaking with laughter above him. Harry laughs, too, looking back at Ben and adjusting himself one last time so he’s lying comfortably beneath him, reaching his right hand between their bodies and starting to tug Ben’s cock with a hum.

“Come on me, yeah?” he says, nodding like he's agreeing with himself, and Ben does nothing but groan as Harry strokes him harder over his tattooed stomach, long fingers pulling and twisting and rubbing at his familiar length. He works over him determinedly, palming over his slit, down the vein on the bottom of his shaft and back up again, until Ben’s breath becomes impossibly heavier from above him. He’s never the kind to make noises, but Harry can tell -- can tell by the way his muscles tense and his cock pulses, can tell by the way his entire body tightens that he’s going to come, and it makes _Harry_ moan desperately when he finally does, splattering against Harry's stomach in thick, warm streaks, catching on his fingers as he strokes him through it with a renewed enthusiasm.

Harry milks him through it until the very last moment he can get away with, Ben shivering from above him in protest before he rolls off to the side. Ben lets out something between a groan and a laugh, throwing an arm over his eyes and breathing in and out, chest heaving in the stillness of the room. Harry rolls over him with a beat later with a sated smile, stomach covered in come -- his already drying, Ben’s not so much -- and presses a kiss to Ben's chest.

“Thanks for doing boyfriend-y things with me, pal,” he smiles, laughing when Ben does. Ben cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, tilting his chin against his shoulder so he can kiss Harry's head. Harry shudders happily, burrows his nose against Ben's underarm and thinks _good enough_.


End file.
